


taking me down now

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Exhaustion, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, Geraskier Fun Day (The Witcher), Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Sleep, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Geralt doesn't find a djinn in the lake. But his trouble with sleep takes a turn anyway.If it weren't for the very real fact that Geralt could split him in two with his bare hands, Jaskier would press the matter further.Instead, he presses his lips together and quietly counts down from five.Even as he sits staring almost motionless into the flames, he thrums like lightning in the air during a storm. Jaskier wants to give him something... uncomplicated.(Written for Geraskier Fun Day: Sleepy.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 472
Collections: Geraskier Fun Day





	taking me down now

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Think" by Kaleida. <3

"Well," he huffs, watching Geralt's tense shoulders shifting beneath his shirt, his brittle disposition an easy read through every muscle of his body now that Jaskier knows what he's looking at, what to look for. The signs of exhaustion leading to Geralt—through no fault of his own, mind; Jaskier's certain lack of sleep simply exacerbates the man's already inherent avoidance of delivering effusive praise—speaking very hurtful lies Jaskier's ears will doubtlessly be unable to unhear.

However, it's hardly Jaskier's fault he's having a bad time of it. And making a valiant effort to have him realise there's a cause for it isn't yielding anything approaching a good time for anyone involved. If it weren't for the very real fact that Geralt could split him in two with his bare hands, Jaskier would press the matter further.

Instead, he presses his lips together and quietly counts down from five. Exercising caution doesn't come easy, but this is what friends are for and all that rot. Being sensitive and understanding where quirks and general personality failures are concerned.

Back turned to him, Geralt continues his fishless fishing equally quietly. It goes on for far too long, long enough Jaskier considers shuffling off, dropping out of his life yet again just as easily as they've been doing until now, but he's got nowhere he needs to be at present and no one waiting for him with a hearty meal or warm bed, thus he retrieves his meagrepossessions he's unceremoniously deposited a few yards away and settles himself on a nearby tree trunk to strum at his lute until Geralt sees fit to pay him some measure of attention.

By the time the sun is turning a mellow orange above the treeline, Geralt has switched from searching the water for djinn to actual fishing. Jaskier watches interestedly from the sidelines, a vague melody underneath his breath, careful to balance out keeping his presence known to Geralt with not annoying him out of sharing his supper. Jaskier's version of inconspicuous does gradually have Geralt's shoulders relaxing and only has him rolling his eyes the once while approaching with his catch.

In no time he's making them a fire, and then starts on cooking them half a dozen fat fish to share between them, a bottle of honey wine and two stale bread rolls joining them from one of the bags hanging on Roach's saddle. Jaskier refrains from bringing up filling-less pies, and Geralt feeds him. Small price to pay.

Inconsequential small talk comes easy to him; as easily as Geralt grunting and proceeding to listen with narrow-eyed attention, though by the time the food and drink are near gone his expression verges on whatever one would call the look of a man desperately needing to either pass out or punch a tree.

The optimal combination of exhaustion and bruised knuckles wouldn't be conducive to the general mood around the place, therefore Jaskier flings himself around tidying up the camp before Geralt can rise to do so himself. It leaves him looking pinched and suspicious, but Jaskier can wash a plate in a river—river, or lake, or whatever body of water this is—thank you very much.

He returns to find two bedrolls awaiting him, Geralt closer to the bigger of the two, which Jaskier is more than thankful for given his small bag hardly has room for bedding of all things. He lingers by the fire, still, though he wonders with Geralt seeming disinclined to move away whether it would seem rude to settle in first given how he's been fed and watered at no cost. Ah, but _friendship_. Alas.

About when he's yawning for the third time in a row, it occurs to Jaskier there's every possibility Geralt won't be joining him in sleep _at all_ due to the whole not being able to sleep thing. Yes, _that_. Slipped his mind, what.

The firelight bounces around every surface, and he follows it with drowsy eyes. It reveals deep shadows in the crevices beneath Geralt's eyes. A darkness which doesn't show itself nearly as much in daylight. Probably not conducive to a good night's rest all things considered.

Even as he sits staring almost motionless into the flames, he thrums like lightning in the air during a storm. Jaskier wants to give him something... uncomplicated.

What that might be, he's not yet sure. But he feels as if friends do such things for each other. Despite potential protests to the reverse, _Geralt_ would.

He bides his time, but ends up squirming on the patch of dry moss he's moved by the fire as a better alternative to sitting on the ground. Of course Geralt notices, and of course his face reads disdain.

Defensively, Jaskier points out, "I can't help it if my bottom's too tender for the great outdoors," which only has Geralt sneering patronisingly. No great improvement there. It vanishes quickly to get replaced by the same tired frown he's been wearing since Jaskier ran into him hours before. That tightness in his jaw which never lets out completes a most uninspiring and, frankly, dreadful portrait. Utterly dispiriting.

Pouring the last of the honey wine in the little mug Jaskier's been using, Geralt watches the bottle empty out and says, "Your problems never cease to astound me." He sounds less than astounded. He places the bottle aside, where it rattles in the shadows outside their little circle of light. Then, "You must resolve all the great ones easily. Pity you can't use your tremendous gifts in solving those of others."

Even though it's not a real question, an actual question, Geralt pointedly stares him down as he passes him the cup across the fire, and watches as Jaskier, trembly and unsettled, sips nervously, reaching the bottom quickly, too quickly, mind blank of anything approaching sense.

Pressing the chipped lip of the mug against his own lower lip, he stalls with a reply. Because his stomach drops into his ballsack, and he's grateful he's not standing upright for full impact. Tiny sips of air to start out with, he graduates promptly to swallowing too loudly around mouthfuls of saliva, which only serves to make him fully aware of the hollow in his stomach. But he lowers the mug finally, sets it aside, and manages a thin, "Huh."

Geralt scoffs under his breath, shakes his head, settles himself back from where Jaskier now notices he's been leaning in. And although he's no longer even remotely looking his way, Jaskier feels warmth, and no doubt colour, flickering up the side of his neck in pinpricks and blotches and nothing to do with the fire, which is now on its way to dying down.

This would customarily signify the moment when they should settle in for the night, but Jaskier's feeling hardly sleepy anymore. Regardless, Geralt shifts the ashes to cover the still-burning embers, and makes his way to his own bedroll, which is Jaskier's cue to do the same. He rounds the remains of the fire, and practically collapses onto the other available one, settling on his side, eyes tracing what little he can observe in the darkness, which is mainly the large tree to which presumably Roach's reigns are tied.

Like this, it's easier to speak. The blankness absorbs everything, though Jaskier has a glimmer of fear it might spit _him_ out. Even so, aware it's out of the blue, Jaskier can't stop the words anyway. "Everyone has problems." They linger in the air between them like dandelion seeds.

He receives a neutral and probably entirely uninterested, "Hmm."

"Some of us deal with them better than others," he marches on.

The quiet is long and strangely brittle. Geralt might sigh, but it could also be the wind. "What do you suggest?" The words don't carry past their little camp. They're probably not meant to.

Jaskier's stomach is void, but he ignores it. "Allow me to... help. Tonight." The scepticism returns with a vengeance by means of a loud huff and a rather rude scoff. "You're hardly doing well on your own, by your own admission," Jaskier points out, rising and turning his torso to glance over the crest of his shoulder at whatever he can see of Geralt in the dark. It's not much. Then again, this isn't altogether much either.

Geralt relents. Jaskier can see it plainly in the drop of his shoulders. His head cocks, as if about to bring judgement, but then it dips forward in quiet assent. Jaskier believes for an instant he can glimpse his eyes, twin shines in the night, but that's nonsense through and through.

"I'm far from a miracle worker, but I can manage one night," he mutters, and knows Geralt has heard him clearly, though he does not comment further. Not that there's much to add after they've reached this understanding of events shortly about to transpire.

Between them doesn't exist either the passion of longtime lovers, or even the excitement of something new which could build towards more. Jaskier's doublet gets discarded first, and by his own hands. His shirt remains to ward off what it can of the slight chill of the night. His boots next, and the laces on his trousers mercifully give way on his nimble fingers. Geralt makes haste to discard those for him with much more efficiency than Jaskier could muster as his prick has decided to take an interest in the proceedings.

Of what he can surmise, Geralt's only busying himself on his own person with unlacing his trousers enough to allow his cock to go free. Jaskier might not see much of anything under the tree canopy above, but there's a slick noise once fabric has been parted. For his part, he bypasses his cock for his balls, squeezes and twists in the way which he knows will make his body seize up, have his cock fill up and moisen at the tip in no time at all. He drags the slick around, moaning quietly at his own touch.

With another shift of air, Geralt is on him, knees between Jaskier's legs, who hastily parts them farther, then farther still to create space where there has never been before, not for Geralt. His hands are tentative where they drag from shoulder to torso across Jaskier's shirt. He's sweating suddenly, for no reason, a dampness at his pits and along the dip of his back.

Then, without warning, Geralt transitions abruptly from cautiously handling Jaskier as if he were a new and potentially dangerous creature found in the undergrowth to scrabbling at him looking to elicit a reaction from every part of Jaskier's body he touches, and Jaskier certainly doesn't disappoint. He leaves the flat planes of Jaskier's chest only to return to the roundness of his knees to slide his palms up Jaskier's thighs where muscles strain and tremble until they reach the flesh between. Jaskier arches in his hands, his back digging into the ground for leverage, for something to push against.

Shortly, only one palm remains, the other lost in the darkness among shifting fabric. But the one between his legs circles the root of his cock and drags up the shaft in a tightly delicious grip Jaskier feels in his toes. Then the other palm returns to smear oil around the hot, hidden parts around his balls and the back of his arse. His hole twitches and flutters, but it doesn't receive more than a cursory pass.

Grasping at both legs beneath the knees, Geralt brings them together and over his shoulder. Jaskier frowns, unseen, but squirrels on once the tip of Geralt's cock prods insistently at the backs of his thighs to fuck forward between them, Jaskier's moan instantaneous even as his hands scramble at the bedding, his own cock leaking at the sensation.

Geralt's grip on his legs might be tight, unflinching even, but it's not rough, won't leave him bruised by morning. Jaskier somehow wishes it would. Grinding his hips forward, Geralt presses his face to the dampness at the side of his neck, carefully folding Jaskier in half sideways in order to keep his legs slung over his right shoulder. Wishing to feel him all along his back isn't reason enough for Jaskier to stop them to switch positions, though there's something kinder about allowing him to hide.

As it is, he lets out ridiculously wanton noises without much input from the parts of his brain still functional. The gasps are embarrassing enough, but when they bypass anything remotely manly to head straight into needy whimpers territory Jaskier wonders if there's a chance he could smother himself without ruining this for Geralt. It becomes a moot point when he allows a moan to get out that's loud enough to startle Roach a dozen or so yards away. Not loud enough to drown out the slapping noises Geralt's monstrous thighs are making against Jaskier's arse. No, nothing useful like that.

But, soon enough, embarrassment turns to need, to too much and not enough all at once. To Jaskier's hand on himself, pumping from root to just below the tip in a messy rhythm which doesn't satisfy the way it should, not until Geralt's hips rock forward hard enough to push him up the bedding, back gliding abruptly across uneven forest terrain and legs tensing where they're still balanced precariously on Geralt's shoulder. They tighten around Geralt's cock, which turns out to be that extra little push he needed to smear his come between Jaskier's legs and up his own cock, and between his balls to dribble faintly down the backs of his thighs.

Pressing his mouth to the side of Jaskier's neck, Geralt mumbles a gruff, "Let go," and he does then, streaking his shirt worse than Geralt managed, but he's hardly breathing, so the mess feels... unimportant. He hardly registers his legs being carefully placed on the ground around Geralt's kneeling form.

The darkness at the front of his mind envelops him swiftly thereafter and carries him all through the night. Next thing he knows, sunlight is only just beginning to trickle in through the foliage to touch at the edges of Jaskier's eyes. A heavy arm presses at his waist, a welcome weight all along his back, from the backs of his knees to his shoulder blades. Faint snores shifting the hairs on the back of his neck tickle, but not enough to have him squirming away.

Some things are not complicated at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a tad nervous about how good this turned out, if at all. *wrings hands* Might be my own exhaustion at play here, though. Kudos and comments will be greatly appreciated. <3 Love you all regardless!
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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